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He was quiet for so long, I had to check to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “His story isn’t mine to tell. Just think about it.”

Ugh. Why did Bellamy have to humanize him? Archer fit perfectly into the evil robot villain box in my head. An evil robot villain with fantastic abs, that is.

I keep seeing flashes of humanity. Like, for example, just now, when pretending not to watch Frank and the bird both squawk at Archer, I noticed something.

That little tin of mints Archer is always pulling out of his pocket is in his hand. And as I walked by, he was popping them into his mouth one after another like a chain smoker. Or, I guess, a chain mint-chewer.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Bellamy’s words are getting to me. But I have a sneaking suspicion Archer is not okay. That he is barely managing his anxiety with an iron fist and a thin thread.

It’s something I recognize a little too well.

The yelling finally stops, and Archer rounds the corner to the mailboxes, looking remarkably unscathed from his human and avian tongue-lashing. But his mints are still in hand. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before we both pretend they didn’t.

I retrieve my mail—mostly bills and junk—slowly, watching Archer struggle with the combination. Navigating the little mailbox dials is a rite of passage at The Serendipity. They’re original to the building, which means they’re old and finicky. It usually takes the help of a longtime resident to break in newbies.

I could offer to help. Despite everything Archer has done, Iwantto.

I’ve just opened my mouth to do so when Roberta catches my eye from her mailbox. Roberta lives on the first floor, and I only know her because she’s always eager to make passing conversation.

And by conversation, I mean gossip.

Today, though, she just gives me a silent shake of the head, as if to say,Don’t you dare offer to help the man ruining all of our lives.

I close my mouth, but I don’t feel good about it. Especially not when Roberta and I both walk away, leaving Archer still fiddling with the dial, another mint crunching between his teeth.

Chapter Eleven

Willa

Because I’m livingout the adage ofa watched pot never boilsin the form of anunwanted man always appears, I run into Trey at the grocery store after I leave Archer at the mailboxes.

My ex is at the other end of the cereal aisle, though it takes a good ten seconds of staring at the back of his head for me to recognize him. It’s the hair. Trey always kept his light brown locks neatly trimmed while we were dating. He had a standing once-monthly hair appointment all through college, while I’ve always been more of atake scissors to my hair when the mood hitskind of person.

Which is why mine is currently just brushing my shoulders. I chopped seven inches off last month when two people canceled their cookie orders in the same week. I’m still getting used to the length, but I think it suits me.

Trey’s hair is pulled back in a baby ponytail that’s clearly a man bun in the making. I think maybe I’m wrong—because since when was Trey into man buns?—until I see his unmistakable profile as he grabs a box of cereal. An ultra healthy organic brand, I can’t help but notice.

Is this what happens when you spend a few years in France—you trade short hair for a wannabe man bun and a love of Cap’nCrunch for organic foods that promote healthy digestion and have all the taste of a flattened cardboard box?

I immediately go into stealth mode, ducking down behind the grocery cart and pulling the closest box of cereal in front of my face.Please don’t let him turn around, I plead silently with the universe. I’m not sure why since it clearly hates me. Thankfully, Trey turns left toward the crackers and snack aisle, totally unaware of me surreptitiously peeking at him.

As soon as he’s gone, I backtrack, zipping back down the aisle the way I came and turning toward the seafood area. One thing France can’t have changed is Trey’s shellfish allergy. I’ll just hang out and talk to the lobsters in the tank while I wait a reasonable amount of time for Trey to vacate the premises.

“Hey, guys,” I tell the lobsters as I duck down to their level. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to buy and boil you. I just need to hide out for a bit.”

They wave their rubber-banded claws in either their best version of a thumbs-up or a slow-mo plea for their freedom.

The only thing worse than running into Trey at all would be running into himhere. Grocery shopping is one of my all-time favorite activities. It’s also my go-to when I’m stressed, even now, when money is a huge stress point. Adding things to my cart can lift my lowest mood.

And this particular Spring Foods location is my personal happy place. Even though there are other stores closer to my parents’ house, I started shopping here in college, long before I lived at The Serendipity. Since it’s downtown, it’s a little more of a neighborhood store. There’s just a vibe.

Trey knows this. More than once, he accompanied me to this exact store when we were home on break. I have a whole host of memories with him here, like making out in the greeting card aisle. And the frozen foods section. And—well, never mind. Probably more places than I want to think about now.

The first few times I came here after the breakup were tough, but I finally managed to exorcise the memories of Trey so I didn’t have to give up my favorite store.

It’s totally unfair that he’s here now. Moving back to townandshopping in my store? No way.

He and I barely talked after I rejected his proposal, but I assumed I got custody of this store in the split. He can have every other Spring Foods and all the Hannafords. Even a Walmart grocery store if he wants to go that route.